The Making of Wendelin the Weird
by awkward
Summary: The true story of Wendelin and the forty-seven witch burnings she left in her wake. One reader and author's take on the path to seeking self destruction.
1. Motive

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Non-magic people (more commonly known as muggles) were particularily afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognising it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burnt so much that she allowed herself to be caught no fewer than forty-seven times in various disguises.  
  
A History of Magic, by Adalbert Waffling¹  
  
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The cold air seeped into her nose, down her throat and into her lungs. The chilled air felt like an absence of matter, and where her skin was exposed she felt as if it too had vanished, leaving her naked to the world. Pulling her rough cloak tighter around her shoulders, Wendelin ducked her head and scurried towards the warmth awaiting her in the little house. Shaking snow from her boots, she closed a heavy wooden door and sighed with contentment.  
  
"Is anyone else here?" She pulled her cloak off with heavy, numb fingers and brushed snow from her dark hair. Soft silence permeated the house, and with a small smile Wendelin crept towards an herb draped doorway at the back of the room. **Aldwin is probably reading that silly letter from his brother again. Muggles burning wizards, indeed.** Wendelin couldn't resist shaking her head in disapproval of the eccentric relative, despite her husband's close relationship with the man.  
  
She poked her head into the room and frowned to find in empty. In fact, the blanket was pulled off of the small bed in the room, and a desk was lying on its side. Looking around carefully to make sure no-one was nearby, she pulled a long, straight wooden rod from her pocket and whispered a pointing spell. The wand (for that's what the wooden rod was) seemed to pull her hand to the side, and Wendelin quickly replaced her cloak and headed back into the cold to find her missing husband.  
  
Wendelin trudged through the deep, pure snow for ten minutes before she came upon a large, squat building of dirty grey stones. Wondering why her husband was at Sir Eldernin's house, she lifted the large copper knocker and let it fall with a dull thud. After a few cold moments, a large, grumpy looking man opened the door.  
  
"What?" His sullen demand surprised her, and she gave a silent gasp, choking on the cold winter air. After a short coughing fit, Wendelin timidly asked if the guard knew where her husband was.  
  
"Aldwin? That was the witch's name, it was. Your neighbor saw him kill a pig just by looking at it funny; came right to Sir Eldernin. You'll probably want to stay for the burning, but I'm sure you can live with your parents or something once the demon is gone, can't you?" The guard saw the faint look on Wendelin's face and tried to grab her shoulders. "Don't faint, now. You wouldn't want to lie in that snow, it's quite cold."  
  
Though the guard was trying to be kind, Wendelin brushed off his hands and stepped back quickly. Her husband, a witch! Even if he wasn't a muggle, he would have been a wizard. The non-magical seemed to fear anything unknown, to hate things that were different.  
  
"My husband is not a witch. How do I save him?" Wendelin looked at the guard defiantly, but he simply gave a short laugh.  
  
"You can't 'save' a witch if there's a witness, you should know that. The people want justice and safety, and soldiers can't protect them from the devil's men." Shaking his head he made as if to close the heavy door in her face. Desperate, Wendelin did the only thing she could think of.  
  
She grabbed the door, jarring her arm but slowing it enough to shout, "My husband is no witch, but I am! Burn me and let him free." The door stopped suddenly, and the guard turned back to her slowly.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
Wendelin held her head high, took a deep breath, and said each word slowly. "I am a witch. My husband is not. Set him free, and burn me."  
  
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¹ Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, J.K. Rowling, p.7 


	2. The First

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Non-magic people (more commonly known as muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burnt so much that she allowed herself to be caught no fewer than forty-seven times in various disguises.  
  
A History of Magic, by Adalbert Waffling¹  
  
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Dark black scuff marks marred the smooth grey stone blocks of the stone. Wendelin kept her gaze to the floor as she was lead into a drafty study. She could hear a fire crackling, but even that couldn't drive the chill of anticipation from the air. The guard towering over her to her right cleared his throat, and she looked up in time to catch the glance of a pale man sitting beyond an island of desk and parchment. Wendelin quickly averted her eyes.  
  
"What's this." The words may have been short, but they contained enough spite and disdain that Wendelin almost dissolved into tears. She began to shake uncontrollably, and mentally scolded herself. This man was no better than her, and she had to remember that; she had to stay strong. "You are a witch?" At the startlingly sharp question Wendelin almost lifted her eyes, but knew they would tear at the sight of the knight, and kept them hidden. She realized the guard had explained her story to Sir Eldernin.  
  
"I am a witch, yes. My husband is not, and he does not know that I am." Wendelin was afraid, but she knew her words where true, and she spoke evenly. Despite her growing courage, she kept her eyes hidden. If he saw courage in her eyes, Sir Eldernin would not forgiver her. She had heard sufficient tales of his cruelty to know she could only show meek, feminine emotions around him.  
  
A long, uncomfortable silence settled in the room. Once again, Wendelin felt cold creeping up on her, and was tempted to cast a warming charm on the room. She knew better than to show her magic to these men, however, and didn't even consider it. The quiet made her want to talk, to explain her husband's innocence further, but she knew that more protesting would only lead them to doubt her.  
  
"This Aldwin, he is prominent in the church, is he not? It would not do for both him and his wife to burn at the stake." Sir Eldwin's voice was distant, and Wendelin knew he was contemplating setting her husband free. She felt relief swell in her heart, but quickly admonished herself. There was no point in giving herself false hopes.  
  
The guard must have answered in the affermative while Wendelin was thinking to herslef. "I believe they will - appreciate - a female witch more. Yes, I'm glad this has come up. Unexpected, but beneficial. You, set free the husband." The knight waved his hand at the guard in dismissal. The guard quickly swept out of the room. Wendelin, confused, simply waited with a lowered head.  
  
After a few moments she heard a scratching sound. She was curious, but resisted the urge to raise her head, knowing the consequences could be grave. The scratching continued at a brisk, even pace. Wendelin picked small bits of fluff from the rough material of her dress.  
  
Quite suddenly the scratching sound, which Wendelin had come to realize was a quill, came to a halt. She heard the quill being placed carefully on the hard wooden desk, and the chair creaked as Sir Eldernin rose. She felt him approach her spot in the room, but held her ground, looking firmly at her worn shoes. Despite this resolve, she looked up immediately when she felt a cold hand on her own.  
  
Dark eyes looked into her own with a mixture of fear and reverence. Deep, rasping breaths hung in the air, and Wendelin realized they were not her own. She was not breathing, having forgotten in her fear. Sir Eldernin brought his mouth close to her ear, and she recoiled in disgust as he whispered, "Little witch."  
  
Her flinch seemed only to encourage him, and he smirked at her obvious fear. "You are so afraid, but what do you have to fear? You have magic on your side. The devil is with you. All I have is the truth, the will of God. Why would you fear God, witch, he who you have betrayed. You are filth, scum, he cares not to have you back. You know this, you know where you are headed. You will burn, both in body and spirit, when you return to your evil master." He spoke with hate that made Wendelin tremble, though she knew he was simply ignorant. It was his own fear he was speaking of, and she almost pitied him.  
  
The knight ran a hand up her trembling arm, almost caressing her. "Such a pretty one, you were. It's a shame you were so easily turned to evil." Abruptly he stepped back, leather boots clicking ever so slightly as he walked back to the huge desk. "You must be punished, of course. Simple fire can never drive out evil as pure as yours." With these dispassionate words, Sir Eldernin opened a drawer on the side of the desk and pulled a rod from deep within.  
  
He returned to Wendelin, a cruel glint in his eyes frightening her deeply. She steeled herself, ready to take the pain. 'For Aldwin. I must do this for Aldwin.' She knew she had to burn on the stake, for her husband. The villagers were scared, they needed to find safety somehow. She could handle a tiny bit of pain to save her husband, her lover. She could do this.  
  
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Wendelin stood, quaking, before the entire village. She could still hear the sound of Sir Eldernin's arm drawing back, delivering blow after blow to her body. They had tied her to the pole in a veil of darkness early in the morning. She had not been able to stand unsupported, but Wendelin knew they only did this so that she would be in the cold all day. 'At least,' she thought, 'the fire will warm me.'  
  
Slowly, the villagers had woken. Wendelin had heard children laughing, women cooking for their families, shutters banging open to let air into stuffy, warm homes. She had closed her eyes, tipping her head back and basking in the warmth of memories. Her childhood, her mother's home, learning magic, her husband, her own home. Wendelin almost had the courage to smile.  
  
"There's a witch! A witch to be burnt!" The triumphant voice brought Wendelin out of her reverie. Slowly, the villagers had trickled out of their homes, coming to witness the flames engulfing the Devil's worshipper. Wendelin fought to bring back her memories, but the moment was gone.  
  
Wendelin saw a guard, one she didn't recognize, approach with a burning stick. Now was the time. She deftly reached for her wand. She would live through this, return to her husband. In the dark morning hours she had planned it all. A simple flame-freezing charm, as she had been taught, and then a quick apparation when the dark smoke gathered. After a few weeks, she would transfigure her own form, return to her husband and explain everything to him. She would finally tell him about the magic, as she had planned for so long. It would all be fine, and this would simply be forgotten.  
  
Wendelin felt warmth, and realized she hadn't yet performed the charm. With a quick, hidden wave of her wand, she felt the heat recede as the flames raced towards her feet. Opening her mouth wide, she let out a scream. It didn't sound right, she realized. She wasn't scared enough, there wasn't enough pain.  
  
Wendelin searched the faces watching her with glee, every one of them actually pleased to see her 'pain'. It disgusted her, but she let out a cry nonetheless. Suddenly she noticed a familiar face she hadn't been expecting.  
  
At the far end of the crowd, Aldwin stood in the cheering masses. Screaming for vengeance, with these sickening people. Aldwin. Her husband. Her betrayer.  
  
Wendelin let out a scream, and a swelling wave of joy spread through the audience. There was the pain they had been waiting for. Wendelin only heard one voice, and tears streamed down her face. Aldwin.  
  
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¹ Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, J.K. Rowling, p.7  
  
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Author's Note: As you can see, I am writing more. This will probably be five chapters or so, but I don't want to say it's definite because I can never really tell. Many of you are probably thinking "Why would Wendelin still have her wand?" Seeing as Rowling somehow got her wizards to perform the flame-freezing charm, I'm going to assume they used a concealing charm, or else weren't searched very thoroughly. Please review, as I really could use constructive criticism. 


End file.
